


A Nice Surprise for John

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluffy Ending, John Should Have Known Better, John Watson Returns to Baker Street, John Watson is a Saint, M/M, Masturbation, Mention of minor character deaths that have occurred prior to the start of the story, Mycroft Holmes Loves to Instigate Trouble, Parent!lock, Parenthood, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock Holmes Has No Boundaries, Sherlock learns his Lesson? I don't think so, Surrogacy, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-14 17:11:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8022247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: Since the time he could walk and talk (and begin to understand how to manipulate people), Sherlock Holmes has sometimes been called a single-minded terror.  There is quite a list of people who have had the utter misfortune of being the center of his attention and subject to his meddlesome antics:  Mycroft, Lestrade and almost all at the Met, the wallpaper, his mum, the steady parade of temporarily-unemployed butlers and nannies, the skull on the mantel, his professors at uni, Mrs. Hudson.  The list is long, and in Sherlock's opinion, tedious.  It is about to get longer.Sherlock has now set his sights on John Watson.  Heaven help the man.*****************************Sherlock's unquestionable genius is accompanied by a surprising dearth of common sense, especially when it comes to his relationship with John.  So when Sherlock has given both roots and wings to a radical idea, be assured that John is not going to be pleased.  Hopefully, he will be persuaded that Sherlock, despite his questionable means, did actually mean to do a good thing.





	A Nice Surprise for John

Sherlock arrived home in a Tasmanian-deviled windstorm, spinning mist and rain and energy from the doorway to the coat hook to the kitchen, where he long-fingeredly flicked on the kettle.  He would have demanded that John make his tea, but John was still on the couch, slightly threadbare socks slouched down over his toes, feet hanging over the end, head on his Union Jack pillow.  There was a few days' stubble on John's chin, and Sherlock disliked that almost as much as he resented John's continuing occupation of the couch.  John'd been there hours before when Sherlock left, had likely done a few rotisserie turns from time-to-time, but hadn't moved much.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked, working very hard with little success to keep the impatience out of his voice.

"Ehhh, no thanks."

"How long do you plan on maintaining this slothful behaviour?"  There was enough of an edge to the snarky delivery that John could easily believe that Sherlock had forgotten why he was on the couch in the flat in the first place.

John opened an eye, clenched his teeth together, reminded himself that he would be unlikely to get away with homicide.  Unless he planned more carefully.  "You do realise the funerals were only a couple of days ago."  He forced his mind off the losses, his empty arms, the flat across town he could no longer afford, the nursery that would never be used.  Rain pattered against the tall windows, muffled only somewhat by the drapes, and John was inwardly pleased that the gloomy weather matched his morose mood.

"Obviously."   This was punctuated with a dimpling of Sherlock's mouth and an undercurrent of ire.

"Listen," John said, closing his eye again and burying his face in the crook of his elbow.  "I just...  If I need a few days...  It might be wise... "  The words were failing him, all of them hurting entirely too much.  "Just leave me alone."  Sherlock had not forgotten what had happened, that Mary, pregnant, had been riding in a cab, involved in a terrible accident, T-boned by another vehicle.  None of those involved had survived the wreck.  The fact that rescue personnel said it was quick and they barely knew what hit them was not at all helpful.

++

John had been back to work a few weeks before Sherlock started to gradually see his personality and sense of humour beginning to come out again.  They'd gone off on a few routine errands - shopping and other boring activities, Sherlock's insistence that he was tired of the gloom and the sighing and the distant sad-eyed stares.  He wanted John to remember London - unpredictable, wonderful, evil, crime-filled, lousy-weathered London - outside of his admittedly difficult circumstance.  And if it took an occasional disagreement with Mycroft or a conflict with a chip and pin machine, then Sherlock was willing to provide the entertainment opportunities.  More than willing, in fact.  Of course, he was not beneath making sure that the occasional confrontation crossed John's way now and again, although the other day when Sherlock had veered quickly on the kerb and John ended up stepping ankle-deep in a puddle, John figured out how intentional that was.  The resultant _mostly_ good-natured punch in the bicep was worth it, Sherlock decided, as was the John Watson knuckle shaped bruise.  He took a photo of it, set his mobile contact information using that as John's incoming profile picture, and looked forward to the day John noticed it.

Baker Street was comforting, John thought, and not being alone was particularly beneficial, even when Sherlock was deliberately riling him up, which was frequently.  They slipped back into the easy friendship they'd shared, John thought, before the fall, before _Mary,_ and, despite the hardship that had brought him back, he _liked it_.

Finally, things began to approach almost normal, when Lestrade summoned them for a case.  It ended up being solved within forty-three seconds of Sherlock's finding out the missing piece of information, but he strung it out, dangling proverbial carrots in front of John, feeding him bait and leading him right into the trap of success.  John, by the end, had figured out that Sherlock had not only solved it long ago, but manipulated the entire unveiling of the solution as if John were the rat in the maze in search of the cheese.  Nonetheless, John reveled in the sense of fulfillment, deciding that it felt good enough that he barely fussed about Sherlock's conduct.  As for Sherlock, he finally felt more at ease on the crime scene with John there to help up his game, to arrive and leave together was just the way it was supposed to be, in his mind.

Later, over dinner at Angelo's, they'd run into someone who recognised them both.  She was a fan of John's blog, and enjoyed Sherlock's dry scathing remarks, but seemed heaven-sent over-the-moon thrilled to have met John.  She was particularly complimentary toward the skill of Sherlock's blogger far more than the mind that actually solved the crimes, paying far more attention to, and even fawning over, the teller of the story than the subject.  While Sherlock was not happy to get less praise, it did seem to perk John up, and he was very relieved to finally, _finally_ , hear John's almost-genuine laughter again.  Sherlock barely resisted the urge to trod on John's foot, however, when the fan turned flirtatious.  John was not interested, he could tell, and so he kept his feet and the scathing remarks he could have made to himself.

The flat seemed a much more pleasant place now that John was less mopey, not completely restored but much closer to himself.  The conversation and the occasional escalating angry discussion about John's precious and, in Sherlock's mind _unhealthy_ , attachment to his coffee mug and his slippers and his toothbrush when any of those items were used for the furtherance of Sherlock's latest delving into whatever experimentation John termed unacceptable.  Sherlock protested that he didn't see a problem with testing the growth rates of black mould and flesh eating bacteria housed in his things. "Necrotizing fasciitis is only a strain of streptococcus, John.  I mean," Sherlock spoke with condescension, "I wash them out after.  At least I rinse for certain."  John glared as Sherlock amended, "Mostly."

++

The surgery was not only the means to John's paycheque, but typically a welcome distraction from John's troubles, too - a great escape and immersion in normalcy.  He enjoyed the outlet for his caring nature, his purpose, the usefulness, meeting needs, but, as goes with the territory, every now and again there was the patient situation that seemed to break his heart.  With raw emotion, John had just described the young parents who had rushed in that morning with their baby when they couldn't wake him up.  It had ended up being shaken-baby syndrome, which John had tragically suspected from the outset, based on presentation and assessment.  The policeman had been dispatched with the ambulance, and had taken a statement from John after the rig left for the hospital, with lights and sirens blaring.  He was still broken up - horrified, even - about it when he related the story to Sherlock.  Things that touched closer to home after his experience losing his unborn daughter were particularly provoking.  They'd turned off more than one news broadcast if it involved something potentially upsetting.  Which was often enough that they'd both observed the news was probably not worthy of their time.

"I am sorry."

Seated across from each other, John turned tired eyes to Sherlock, knowing he was expressing sorrow over more than just the family at the clinic today, but over John's resurfacing grief as well.  "Some people just shouldn't be parents, I guess.  While others never get the chance."  Shaking his head then quickly, as if to dispel the errant thoughts, he continued, "I mean, I get it, and it was obviously not meant to be, but seeing this, today..."  His voice trailed off, and he tried to rustle himself.  "It just hit me, I guess."

"I didn't realise how badly you wanted ... all of it."

"I was looking forward to being a dad.  A good dad."

"You would have been, of course."  

"You would have been Uncle Sherlock to her."  His breath expelled in a huff with a sad smile.  "I was almost looking forward to un-teaching her all the questionable things you would have exposed her to."

"Like the skull on the mantel?" John shrugged as if that wasn't that unusual, and waited.  Sherlock was watching him as he attempted, "Toes in the crisper?"

Nodding, John agreed to that, and added, "Excitement over a locked room murder.  Fascination with blood.  Bullet holes."  They both glanced at the wall and the smiley face.  "You do keep it interesting here."  John chose not to mention some of the more unsavory adventures over the past weeks that involved threat of the housing authority for the fire damage, and a stern verbal thrashing from Mrs. Hudson for the destruction of her sisters draperies. And the pleading apologies he'd had to offer the upstairs neighbours for yet another late-night explosion followed by the acrid rotting stench of sulfur.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, obviously deciding how hard to press John's buttons, and John could sense imminent trouble when one side of his mouth tried somewhat unsuccessfully to camouflage his smile.  "I can resort to acting childlike if that would help fulfill your need for parent-like interactions."

"Thank you, _no_.  I will not give you carte blanche to embrace your inner spoiled child."  John didn't say, _you already do this_ \- he didn't need to.

"Of course."  But Sherlock's eyes were twinkling as he said it, and John could almost hear wheels turning as he perhaps was calculating how to get into trouble.  "I promise I will not regress to thumb-sucking.  Or worse."

"That one bedwetting incident at boarding school was that traumatic, eh?"

"God!  No, I nev --"  and Sherlock stopped, surprised, ambushed by John's quick wit.  They smiled at each other, Sherlock blushing a bit mostly at being caught unawares, and then the mood sobered again.

Introspective then, John swallowed.  "I do carry a bit of guilt."  The subject had changed, and a few moments of eye contact allowed Sherlock some interesting insight.  "Since..."

Brow raised and head angled in thought, Sherlock spoke.  "Guilt?  You had nothing to do with the accident.  None of that was your fault."  John was quiet, not wanting to put the thoughts into words, was wondering what on earth was wrong with him as he pondered why he had brought this up anyway.  Frustrated and puzzled, Sherlock finished, "What are you _on_ about?"

John weighed his choices, decided that maybe it was time to maybe drop a hint or two.  "This.  Baker Street.  You.   _This_ part I'm grateful for.  I'm glad to be here."  There was a blush creeping up against John's collar.  "Mary and I had been, well, not especially happy lately, you probably knew that.  We fought..."  He paused, remembering some of the more verbally brutal ones.  He let the silence be as communicative as the words could have been, or  _more_.  He hoped Sherlock would infer all John never uttered, didn't want to say aloud, the fighting, the unhappiness.  Whispering, he considered a spot on the floor as he said, "It was godawful for a while, really.  I was livid before Christmas.  After what she did.  And lately, it was she who was furious about..."  He left the sentence unfinished, figuring that Sherlock knew, or would figure out, what Mary was upset about.  "It was hard, you know..."  He blew out a breath, continuing.  "I had missed you, quite a bit."  John could feel the colour creeping upward.  "And she knew... how I felt about..."

Sherlock turned, unblinking to look full on at John, with those steady pale vibrant eyes piercing into both what John had said and what John had not said.  "Me?"  The gaze was probably now scanning his brain and recording EEG waves, as intent and penetrating as it was.  Sherlock did not seem as if he'd been expecting that, vacillating somewhere between puzzled and shocked.

John groaned, leaned his head against the back of the chair.  "Oh, please.  Certainly you've known."

"Known.  Known _what_ , exactly?  John, are you saying..."

"You see bloody everything!"  John's voice took on an urgent tone.  " _How can you not know_?  Everyone else bloody knows."

Sherlock finally looked away, over John's shoulder, processing, his mind furiously trying to sift through new data, analyse and interpret the meanings, make sense of it, _own_ it.  "Apparently not this."

"I thought you'd put it together on my stag night.  Rather obvious even to me, but you seemed... unimpressed."

"I don't do sentiment."  The protest was almost automatic.

"Now that's bollocks.  Don't even try."  John's mind made the decision then.  No regrets.  No wishing or wondering or worrying, particularly when he'd already missed it once.  It had been too long that he'd been yearning, and he'd learned that life could turn on a dime, and he would no longer miss out - time to seize the day.  "And then, god, your best man speech.  You stood up in front of a room full of people and pretty much 'fessed up, to all of it."  He sat forward, watching Sherlock for signs that he was going to run shrieking from the room.  Or freeze.  And John didn't want either to happen.  "I mean, what you said could certainly have been construed as platonic, but, _god_ , those close to us, they absolutely could read between the lines."  Quietly, with a sad breath, he added, "Mary certainly heard, loud and clear."  Taking Sherlock's cold hands between both of his own, he made sure Sherlock was actively listening, and not running amok in his mind palace, then continued, "I would have stayed with Mary, had a little family, done the right things, lived my life.  The expected things.  And been faithful to her."  They both looked down at the gold band still on John's finger.  "I'd like to think we'd have stayed good friends."

Sherlock's cool hands were now clammy too, and John's hands squeezed slightly as he slid his little finger down over the staccato bounding of Sherlock's radial pulse while they both watched the obvious inquisitive gesture.  John let his hands hold, gently, an encouragement, and Sherlock lifted his face to meet John's warm blue eyes watching him.

"I don't seem to want that anymore."  John let the words hover and linger in the air, forced his own gaze to be steady and open.

Sherlock hesitated, thought about speaking, then changed his mind.  It didn't surprise John, and he knew this was likely all uncharted territory for this amazing friend who was currently, atypically, without speech.  This part would very definitely be up to him to lead through.  Or at least, to perhaps _stumble_ through.

John's inner voice reminded himself of all he'd done before - invading Afghanistan, surviving the loss of this man once, Harry's drinking, and where he found himself yet again, surviving - and where he wanted to be, to seize the day.   _Carpe diem!_  "I want much more than that.  Don't get me wrong, I miss Mary and what we would have had, I'd be a wretch not to, and the baby, _god_ ..."  The words breathed out brokenly, a reverent eulogy for his unnamed daughter.  He swallowed, remembering the looks Mary used to give him, the sad and resentful looks from time to time.  She'd known there was a part of him that he'd held back, never shared, kept from her.  One ugly fight only a few weeks ago, right before the accident, and she'd accused him of only having room for one love in his life, and that they both knew, she'd said venomously, that it sure as hell wasn't her.  He watched Sherlock's pale, serious eyes.  "But this might have opened a few more doors for us, yeah?"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm sure you're about to figure it out."  There was a flush over Sherlock's cheekbones, some blinking as his mind calculated, sorting and drawing conclusions behind those bright eyes.

Unhurriedly, John stood, very aware of but for the moment seeming to ignore Sherlock, turning out the lights in the flat, throwing the lock across, straightening the pillow on the chair, putting the last few dishes into the sink.

"John, I..."

Sherlock at the height of his deductive powers was a beautiful and powerful sight.  Sherlock nervous, however, was almost frightening in the sense that the typical security and confidence was replaced by the contrasting uncertain man, a skittish animal about to bolt.  "It's fine, whatever you do or don't want, I'm good with it.  I'm not going anywhere."   _But for the love of all that's holy,_ John thought _, please want what I want._

"I've never..."  Sherlock's eyes flicked briefly to John's face, glanced back down as if uncomfortably awkward.  Or embarrassed.  ".. _.ever._.."

"It's all right.  I suspected as much."  Mycroft had labeled him once as a virgin, but John was never sure, with either Holmes actually, how much stock to put in what they said when they were together, as they were so motivated by the desire to play games, circumvent the truth, dominate, push each others' buttons.  He gentled Sherlock with a few strokes on his shoulder, his fingers easing into the curls, then backing off a bit, patting his arm.  "Will you let me?"  He made sure his tone was light, low, and gentle.

"Let you _what_ , exactly?"  Sherlock asked, his voice low and steady, serious.  John got the impression that there was a delicate, inquisitive young mythical creature at his elbow, curious and fearful at the same time.

"Show you what I'm feeling.  As much or as little as you want."

"I do not participate half-heartedly in anything.  I want all of it, John."  His bravado gave way to a small flicker of doubt as the emotion crossed his face.  "I think."

"I was hoping.  I'll make it good for you," he whispered reassuringly, "and we'll be good to each other," and the smile John bestowed was initially small then broadened, the one Sherlock gave back was more reminiscent of the confident one.  John took his arm, his fingers wrapping around a solid bicep warmly, the faintest hint of a caress, giving gentle, guiding pressure until they both were standing.  He eased closer, his hand behind Sherlock's head, drawing their mouths nearer.  The first kiss may have been lacking in technique, as Sherlock was unsure and hesitant and perhaps  _unkissed_ , but it more than satisfied in so many other ways, expressing pent up emotion and moving well past the previous boundaries of their longstanding friendship.  And much more - heat and desire and longing.  "Your bedroom?"

"Fine.  It's closer."  Sherlock drew close again, tasting and licking into John's lips, mouth.  "And I find I'm impatient."

John wondered about setting the pace slowly, letting Sherlock think about it, revel in it, heaven knows he studied things closely and often, including parts of John such as toe hair growth patterns and the culture swab he'd taken of John's naval, both while sleeping, that John felt were best left unstudied.  But Sherlock had other plans about letting John dictate their explorations, and once they were in the bedroom, he brushed John's helping hands away as they tried to work on clothing.  "Let me.  I want to."  John's shirt hit the floor and Sherlock's probing hands were already categorising and measuring, pressing lightly then firmer over his healed wound, chest, armpit, sliding down to his navel.  John was studied a few long and sort of uncomfortable minutes until his jeans were uncomfortably full, and he grabbed at Sherlock's busy hands, stilling them.

"Enough."  His fingers made quick work of Sherlock's shirt buttons, letting the backs of his fingers lightly brush over Sherlock's now well-healed scar, then fell to his own belt.  "We'll have plenty of time later for that.  You can touch everywhere, as much as you want, to your heart's content, I promise, later.  And often," he added with a smile.  Nodding, Sherlock shrugged out of his shirt, his hands slowly working belt buckle and zip as John climbed into bed naked, nudging the sheets away with his feet.  Sherlock grew slightly flustered as John watched, and John felt a twang of compassion at his nervousness.  Lightly, he began with what he hoped was an easy, encouraging smile, "Come on, let me see.  Please?"

John watched Sherlock's eyes skitter from his shoulder to his fingers drumming absently along his hip, to the line of hair that went from navel to pubis, then the rest of him - hard, thick, and bobbing in Sherlock's direction.  As John waited, he could almost hear the running litany of Sherlock arguing with himself, the myriad emotions playing on his face and all the things he wanted to say and didn't.  John would have preferred hearing his stream of consciousness over the silence.

"Would it help if I ..."  John caught the sheet with his toe, beginning to pull it over him.

"No."  And Sherlock crossed decisively from nervous to committed to the process, and his clothing slid onto the floor while his body slid onto the bed.

John was careful to first look him in the face rather than let his eyes wander elsewhere, and he placed a finger under Sherlock's chin as he leaned in for an easy, relaxed kiss.  "It's okay.  First times aren't about getting it perfect.  They're about discovering something new together, all right?"  In what he hoped was a reassuring touch, John's hand wandered from jaw to clavicle, brushing lightly over an already peaked nipple, sliding into the concavity of his waist, the indent inside his iliac crest.  When the back of his hand brushed against Sherlock's throbbing shaft, there was a deep vibrato from Sherlock's throat.  John smiled, pushing forward on his elbow and leg to press lips against Sherlock's.  "Let's figure out what else you find pleasurable, shall we?"

++

Later, Sherlock would wonder exactly what it was about that first time that wasn't exactly perfect.  Granted, his basis for comparison was obviously rather limited, but John was careful to see to his needs, assure him of his concern, make sure he was comfortable and the absolute focus of John's every attention, and to him, it was pretty damned wonderful.  The act itself had been mostly hands and frottage, ending in sweet release and the tremble of their relieved and satisfied bodies, melting into a _clinging_ embrace for long minutes as their bodies settled back down.  For Sherlock, however, it had been a connection unlike one he'd ever experienced before.  He stretched out under John's protective arm, loathe to break skin contact for any reason.  He wondered if John would fuss if he asked for company while he went to the loo, then decided that John most assuredly would.   _More's the pity._  When he returned to bed, John partially opened an eye to peer at him.  There was a very pleasant, relaxed expression about him, and Sherlock wondered if John could possibly feel as sated, complete, thoroughly at peace with the world as he did.  John's left hand was curled up under the pillow, out of John's line of vision, but Sherlock could see the glitter of the metal band on his finger, which he hoped John would one day soon take off.  With his recent trauma and grieving, he knew John's peace would take longer to restore.  Even after a shuddering orgasm.

"You 'kay?"  John reached out a heavy arm, guiding and pulling at Sherlock's long body until he was touching, facing away and pressed back against John's chest.  Their limbs were tangled but Sherlock was surprisingly comfortable.  John's warm breath hit the back of his neck, an arm around his waist, the feeling of hard male angles not particularly hard anymore but resting comfortably between them.  It was, Sherlock decided, intimate and worthy of his observation.  And surprisingly pleasant.  He wondered if their respiratory patterns would sync and if John would perhaps drool on his pillow like he did occasionally out in the sitting room.

"Fine.  You?"  Apparently, Sherlock noted, John's words shortened and slurred after sexual gratification, while his own diction remained quite crisp.

"...mmm hmm."  Sherlock could feel lips, a stubbled chin at the back of his shoulder blade.  "Can y' sleep w' me a bit, here?  It' be nice."

Sherlock knew that it was an ultimate compliment when John slept over with someone, or allowed someone to spend the entire night, and he heard much more than the mere words.  He wasn't tired a bit, but answered, "I suppose."  The word _nice_  reverberated in his brain.  John had just shown him a whole new facet of consideration, of tenderness and care-taking.  It was something of a revelation, this feeling  _cherished_.  He thought how best to express his gratitude, and it only took seven minutes to come up with something else particularly nice for John, something that Sherlock wanted to do for John.  A surprise.  Something _nice_.

++

"I'll bet you that I can."

"No way.  I'll bet you that you can't."  John's chest was out, shoulders back, confidently arrogant as he contradicted Sherlock's claim.

John knew there was no way Sherlock could win this bet, that he could never have the flat cleaned to John's standards in twenty minutes.  Twenty minutes, never.  An hour, perhaps.  There had been a bit of a messy explosion of foul substances in the kitchen, not to mention the bits of laundry scattered around the bedroom, the books and papers strewn across various couches and table surfaces.  It had started a bit of a fuss when, initially, John couldn't find a single, clear spot to set down his RAMC mug.  At John's glare, Sherlock helpfully (and with some sass) said that John could feel free to clean it up himself if it was bothering him that much.  The row escalated, and now John stood to win a bet _and_ get the flat cleaned without him having to do it (or pay for it to be done, which John had threatened only when hazardous, toxic substances were involved).

"Stakes?" Sherlock asked.

John was quick on that end.  "Indian. Curry. And Bourne tonight."

"Fine."  Sherlock hated those movies, and had little tolerance for why John would ever want to watch them in the first place, let alone to revisit one.

John could already taste the vindaloo of which he was so fond.  "You?"

"I want a sperm sample."  John snapped to attention, staring wide eyed, as Sherlock added, "Yours."

The laughter could not be stopped.  "I think I already give you that from time to time, you know."  They'd certainly had some spirited forays into new and previously unappreciated ways to express themselves, with hands and mouths and bodies.  They had indeed found many new things that Sherlock did find pleasurable.  Both were quite pleased at the intimate change, and just the other night, John had quietly slipped off his ring before coming to bed.

Holding John's attention, however, Sherlock was serious, apparently.  He gestured at the microscope and nodded.  "No, a real one.  In a container and properly obtained by manipulation, not withdrawal.  No lube."

"What are you studying now?"

In answer, Sherlock simply cocked an eyebrow and waited.

"Fine.  A pleasant enough loss, anyway, come to think of it," John shrugged.  "Although I'm going to win this, no doubt."  Another thought, and he asked, "Nothing illegal with my DNA?"

"Nothing illegal."  Sherlock extended a hand, offering a formal closure of the deal.  "The sample becomes mine when you hand it over.  Do I need this in writing?"  They'd never officially shook hands over a deal, and John looked at Sherlock's outstretched arm with a degree of mild misgivings.

"Of course not."   _It'll never happen,_ John assured himself. _No reason to worry._  John reached, shook on the deal, and Sherlock checked his mobile for the time.

"All right, then.  Go for a walk, or otherwise get out. I will not have you here critiquing my efforts."

In hindsight, John should have been more suspicious, should have known better, should have gathered more information.  By the time he'd returned from a slightly longer than twenty minute walk, figuring the extra few minutes would perhaps result in a cleaner flat, Sherlock was seated, reading something on his laptop screen.  His sleeves were rolled up, cheeks flushed, and John could tell there had been some exertion judging by the faint remainder of sweat at the back of his neck.  They were quiet as John looked around, and Sherlock all but ignored John completely.  

And, he had done it.  The flat was clean, decluttered, hoovered, and amazingly, _impossibly_ straightened up.  There was even a fresh citrus scent, and a bit of organisation to their usual casual "stuff."  The kitchen, on closer inspection, was also back to completely tidied, surfaces shining and clean.  Speechless, John turned to attempt to say something to Sherlock, and was met simply with a sealed, sterile specimen cup proffered at the end of Sherlock's long fingers.  He considered it for a few long seconds.

"Now, please."

"Now as in, right here while you watch, or can I at least take care of this privately?" John could feel the tension building at the back of his head, and surprisingly, a bit of disappointment at the loss of dinner and the movie he'd been looking forward to.

Sherlock seemed to weigh that suggestion, shrugged.  "I would quite enjoy watching, but if you would prefer..."

Slightly nervous, John reassured himself that this was definitely not the strangest thing he'd ever done since meeting Sherlock, and he knew it wouldn't be the last peculiar thing, either.  His jumper was discarded shortly on the couch next to him, and he unbuttoned and unzipped and moved some clothing out of the way.  A steady hand, a few minutes to get his head in the game, and he was dimly aware that Sherlock hadn't pecked at the computer in a while, having become completely engrossed in John's ... _endeavors_.

"Want a hand, there?" came a breathy low voice from across the room.

"Good, thanks."  John looked up, met a steamy gaze, feeling the caress of Sherlock's attention, and it was arousing, being watched.  He was close, his hand gripping firmly, his chest out, feeling a coiling tightness building low in his gut and at the base of his spine.  He met Sherlock's amused eyes, the anticipation and pleasure and ridiculousness of the request now mildly funny, and he smiled.  "Guess it's too late to fire up the laptop for some ... additional erotic stimulation?"  John's eyes drifted partially closed for a moment.

"Seems unnecessary.  I'm fairly certain your mind is solely on me."

His hand sped up, tightening, adding a small twist, and John didn't look up until he noticed Sherlock unexpectedly taking a seat next to him.  Long fingers reached out to lightly touch, flick, and then pinch at an already tight nipple.  There were gasps from both of them as John's hand slowed and, moaning, he tensed, finding release, the only name coming from his lips the one of the man entwined next to him.  With razor-sharp intention, his eyes focused on sample collection as Sherlock's hand pressed on John's chest and he nuzzled his mouth into that warm musky, and slightly sweaty, area of John's neck.

John leaned back, savoring the endorphin high, the shift of hormones, and let his eyes close.  He felt the specimen container being removed from his hand, and waited for the expected sounds of a lid being twisted on.  What he heard instead was the sound of a zipper.

++

Not very many minutes had elapsed when the slide of hand on turgid flesh for the second time that night ended.  The lid was finally tightened on the specimen cup, and John found himself in that oddly floating place where he was so relaxed, boneless, mind wandering, that he wasn't entirely sure what had actually just gone on and didn't much care either.  A nap wasn't out of the question, the circulating post-orgasmic rush comfortable and warm.  What interrupted his reverie happened to be a completely unexpected and unusual brisk knock at the door.  Fully put back together, Sherlock rose, picked up the container, and placed a hand on the doorknob.  He then waited for John to at least acknowledge the imminent intrusion into their flat, to pull a-right his own clothing.  He opened the door, signed his name where directed, and slid the specimen container into the outstretched insulated courier bag, and in less than thirty seconds they were alone again.  The pick-up happened so fast that there hadn't been time to question, or protest, or halt the process.  But as the door clicked closed, the sound spurred John's body, mind, and mouth to action, and barely a moment later, he was leaning forward then on his feet, incredulous.  And irritated.

"What the bloody hell?!  What did you just do?"  The menacing voice John spoke with did not seem to rattle Sherlock.  John stepped to the window, drapes pulled aside as he watched the vehicle pull away, disappear down the street.  "I don't understand."

"That was the bet. I won. End of discussion."  His voice was succinct, matter-of-fact, and dismissive.

" _What_ ," John sneered with rather a lot of restraint, "then, was _that_?"  He quirked his head at the now-disappeared vehicle.

"You lost.  I don't believe you are entitled to complaining rights or even additional information."  

_"Sherlock."_

An amused smirk appeared on Sherlock's face and John quelled the urge to resort to physical force to remove it.  With his fist.  "Don't you trust me?"

"Not even a little bit."  Sherlock sat again at the computer, but was still looking at John, who then said, "Did you just ... on top of mine...?"  He couldn't bring himself to fully verbalise the question.

"You lost the bargain, and while I wasn't planning on that, it was completely my prerogative."  John looked over, then, finally taking in the body language that Sherlock wasn't budging and it was, anyway, a done deal.

"I am not okay with that."  Perhaps appealing to any sense of ethics... and John let _that_ thought drop as quickly as it began. Futility personified. "Whatever the fuck _that_ was."

"You said I didn't need it in writing.  Pay attention, John.  It became mine.  With which to do whatever I wanted."

"This is so _not on_."  John could only hope that whatever lab it was destined toward wasn't working on something bizarre, and he hoped it was completely confidential.  The last thing he wanted in the wrong hands were details about his motility, sperm count, or sperm morphology.  "Where exactly did that ... sample go off to?  Which you contaminated, by the way, when you _added_ to it."

Sherlock shrugged, apparently ready to change the subject.  With new energy in his speech, he offered, "I could actually go for curry tonight.  Do you still want it?"

"I'm not done here, Sherlock."

"Actually, you finished quite nicely, although you were quieter than you usually are at climax.  Ejaculate volume seemed a bit more than normal, although it's been a few days."

" _Sherlock_."

"Sit down, John.  While I order in dinner."  He was aloof, calm, and puzzlingly evasive.  Sherlock swiped John's mobile from the sofa table where it had ended up.  "Using yours because you have the restaurant on speed dial."

"I don't think I am particularly inclined to share dinner with you."  Ready to make good on that statement, John thought perhaps he'd head all the way upstairs again, do some reading or something.  Anything that put a little distance between them was sounding not only good, but imperative.

"It was mine, I'm not explaining it again.   _Now_ ," he said, and John could hear some rustling which made him look back, concerned.  Then narrow an eye at the scene.  Sherlock was holding his jumper aloft in one hand, a lighter in the other hand underneath it.  His favourite jumper.  A lighter John had no idea where it had come from, although he was fairly certain Sherlock snuck a few cigarettes from time to time, outside the flat.  The incineration threat was obvious.  "Sit."  The word came out clipped and emphatic.  "Let's have dinner, shall we?"

John could feel the telltale stressful twitching of his left eye, the one that acted up when Sherlock's behaviour ranked rather high on the outrageous scale.  Since today had already been off the charts, John did not want Sherlock to outdo himself.  He forced his mind back to important matters at hand, important matters that were threatening to go up in literal smoke if John didn't agree.  "Fine."

"Say it."

"Fine, dinner is fine. Vindaloo. And samosas. And you're bloody paying this time."  Sherlock pocketed the lighter, tossed the garment absently aside.

"Fine.  But I get to offer commentary on that ridiculous movie you are so fond of."

"Quietly.  I still want to be able to hear the dialogue."

"All right.  And if you stop whinging, I'll rub your feet after that scene I do actually like, that one in the morgue..."

++

A couple of days later, just back from a walk, they ran into Mrs. Hudson just coming out of her doorway.  She handed over their mail and a small plate of sweets.  "So, Dr. Watson, did you enjoy your surprise the other night?"

"My ... _surprise?"_  He was grateful, that his voice didn't crack as the word came out.  The only surprise John could remember was Sherlock's odd shenanigans involving the collection of a very personal specimen.

"Your clean flat, of course.  I found it so thoughtful of him, your Sherlock.  He had a handful of people lined up, waiting in my living room, to clean the flat while you were out.  To surprise you."  Her hands came together in excitement as she grinned at him, then paused.  "Surely you noticed."  Briefly, she frowned at John's irritation and clucked at a rather chagrined Sherlock who was clearly wishing he was anywhere else.  "How did you like it, dear?"

"Oh, it was indeed quite a surprise.  Thanks."

John prided himself on his self-control as Mrs. Hudson _tsked_ at them both as she watched them climb the stairs.  "You wanker," he hissed as soon as they were inside the door.  "You cheated."

"You did not specify that it had to be me alone to fulfill my end of the bargain."

"It was implied."

"I don't believe you'll be as lax in your conditions if we ever do this again."

"Where _exactly_ did the courier take my..." and when one of Sherlock's eyebrows lifted, he corrected himself, " _our_ ... specimen?"

"I believe I already answered this.  It was not specified that I must disclose everything.  Science, research, or something else entirely.  That's all you're getting."

++

The incident passed, and John fairly quickly stopped harping on it.  Probably because Sherlock seemed to have a steady flow of other things more urgent, more recent, and occasionally more dangerous to fuss about.  Like the toxic bleach fumes that permeated the entire flat one morning.  Like the package that came in the mail that apparently was leaking out what may or may not have been biohazardous fluids.  Like the downright treacherous arrangement of knives he'd set up inside the doorway one night when they went to bed.  And one rather disturbingly arousing discussion of sexual fetish clubs and Sherlock's admission that someday he might like to visit one, with John of course, for the furtherance of their education.  After that revelation, John's mouth had been dry for fifteen minutes while Sherlock tried not to smirk from behind the newspaper.

So John had almost completely forgotten about the sample. 

++

They'd just sat down to tea one afternoon when Mycroft arrived.

Sherlock's eyes dilated in what may have been fear when he saw that his brother held an envelope from Barts hospital laboratory.  He extended it without preamble.  "Brought this for you."

Sherlock snatched it, pocketed it without reading it, seethed.  "You could have just texted."

John's attention had been grabbed by the immediate tension that had exploded in the flat for reasons yet undisclosed, but John knew better than to disregard the sensation that was prickling at the back of his neck and in the pit of his stomach.  It was disturbing that for a few minutes, the brothers seemed to have a spirited back and forth conversation with just their eyes, body language, and facial expressions, all of it plainly of the displeased sort.

"You need to tell him."  Then Mycroft spoke out loud imperiously, down his arrogant nose.

Sherlock bristled.  "No, I don't."  The clipped word was back, a sign, John knew, of aggravation.  "I _didn't_."

John could feel the slight traces of uneasiness.  Which was not all that unusual, happened rather regularly, but had never involved both brothers like this, when clearly he was the uninformed object of their clandestine discussion.  "Tell me what?"  John looked between them as they held eye contact, ignoring him.  "Is there something the matter with your health?"

"This wasn't your place."  Sherlock did look truly furious.  "You're a right meddlesome bastard."  Sherlock would not look at John, simply riveted glaring eyes at Mycroft.  Before John had had a chance to determine the chain of events that he set this in motion, or to reach out to halt Sherlock, or even to speak again, Sherlock took an annoyed step back.  Silently, with a ferocious flounce across the room, a grabbing of his Belstaff, and not one more word, Sherlock stormed out of the flat.

John could feel a Holmes' induced headache coming on.  "I don't suppose you're going to..."

"No, John.  But the wheels have been set in motion."  He stood, stoic, and if he'd had a hat on, he would have doffed it.  Or clicked his heels together.  "All in good time now, Dr. Watson."

John didn't even fuss as Mycroft left.  It wasn't worth the aggravation.

He didn't have long to wait until his mobile buzzed with an incoming text.   **Angelo's.  7 pm.**

++

"You did _what_?!"  With a forced disbelieving laugh, John was certain for a span of about four seconds that he'd heard incorrectly, that he'd finally been subjected to permanent mind altering hallucinogenic exposure.  A tasteless practical joke.  Or something, that was of course Sherlock's doing.  He forced his mind back to current conversation.

"I thought it would be nice for you.  You wanted it so badly, and then after the accident..."  Sherlock could see that perhaps John was just not understanding him, tried again.  "After the wonderful way you've been taking care of me, and I know you were disappointed about not getting to be a father, raise a child."

 John was having trouble forming words.  

Sherlock filled the uncomfortable silence, trying to explain.  "I wanted to do something nice for you."

"Nice.   _Nice?_  Nice, Sherlock," John said then, words returning with intensity, his head angled and very close to Sherlock lest someone overhear this conversational lunacy, "means fetching something, running an errand, buying a trinket or a favorite bottle of wine."  His voice was raising despite his efforts, and he lowered it again.  "Nice is not making a crucial life decision without telling the person, and throwing the little wrinkle of genetic _paternity roulette_ in on top of it."  At least, John could see, Sherlock was looking at him, seemed to be paying attention.  "What on earth were you _thinking_?"

"That you would be appreciative of my help."

"Not good."

"It's a done deal, though.  Signed, sealed, paid for."  There was a sparkle in Sherlock's eye, a thrill of excitement.  "And now confirmed," he added patting the envelope that he'd shown John, who had certainly understood the meaning of the markedly elevated b-HCG lab value.  "But not for another almost seven months, John.  It's so long to have to wait!"

Angelo seemed to be hovering, and John gestured with his hand, brushing him away until the risk of someone overhearing their discussion was less problematic.  "Can you even remotely understand what this is going to mean?  Mrs. Hudson may have something to say about it, and have you considered what are we going to do with a baby with our lifestyles, or at a crime scene, huh?  I mean, you can't just strap a kid to your back and expect to carry on as usual."

Sherlock sat somewhat still, brow in a small furrow, head angled, seeming to be deep in thought.

"Please tell me that this was a very bad idea for a terrible prank, something you set up and are now just waiting to laugh at me and tell me you were kidding."

No such confession came.  Not there at Angelo's.  Not on the walk back to the flat.  And not in the sitting room later.

"So I am to understand that," John said and then halted.  He'd been quiet much of the rest of the evening, trying to wrap his mind around the revelation, "Somewhere out there, there is a woman carrying a child..."

In the pause when John tried to gather coherent thought, Sherlock murmured, "A surrogate."

John's eyelid twitched again.  "Right."  There was a fullness in his chest, an itching in his arms, as he considered the thought of a child.  It was a reminder of the aching from before, and an awareness of something he didn't know he still wanted.  Overwhelmed, John blew out a breath as Sherlock watched him.  "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes, John."

"Think I'm going to have a bath."

Sherlock nodded, picked up the laptop.

"Don't."  Sherlock paused mid keystroke.  "Don't ... pick a name without me.  And don't..."  The request trailed off.  Their eyes met, and John couldn't stop the smallest smirk as he could only shake his head.  "You realise you're completely nutters."

"So I've been told."

++

The next time Mycroft arrived at the flat bearing a slightly thicker sheaf of papers, he bypassed Sherlock, ignoring him entirely to approach John.  Sherlock did not seem bothered in the least and disregarded his brother as well.  Inscrutable, he stood near, hand outstretched.  "Thought this might interest you."

Heart pounding, John felt his jaws clench as he resisted the urge to laugh.  Or mutter something profane.  Making Mycroft wait just a moment, he finally reached out to take the folder, perused the report quickly.  Quite a bit of information had been thoroughly redacted, but the top page contained the written report from a prenatal ultrasound, a level two scan, that had been performed yesterday.  The report contained foetal dimensions, confirmed the EDC, showed normal heart structures, appropriate measurements, normal brain growth, everything showing absolutely expected findings, nothing of concern.  Any mention of the gender of the baby had also been blacked out.  There were images on the back pages, grainy foetal outlines, but recognisable of course.  He could vividly recall Mary's scan images, how the stills were harder to really appreciate compared to how fluid and visible everything was when it was in motion.  He let his finger trace the outline of skull, long arm bones, fingers, and Sherlock wondered if John was aware that he was smiling, a bittersweet softness about his eyes, as he touched the photos.

Sherlock appeared at his elbow, peering intently at John for a few minutes, then he let his eyes take in the photos.  John raised the images so they were closer, to share them with Sherlock, feeling the press of Sherlock's torso against his arm.  "Long femur.  Must be mine."

"I don't think they use femur length as anything other than confirmation of dates and appropriate growth patterns.  That and crown-rump length and head diameter." Sherlock's eyes sparkled back at John, who added a breathy, "Wanker," to the sentence.

They exchanged a few other observations at some of the other images, and neither one realised that Mycroft had slipped out without a by-your-leave.

John stared at the printouts again, feeling some sort of newly developing connection to the process somehow.  He looked up to see Sherlock watching him with a bemused expression, and he could only shake his head at the unpredictability of his flatmate.  "We have a lot to do here to get ready before this baby comes to live here with us."  His eyes closed as Sherlock's arms came around him, a decidedly atypical expression of tenderness.  "You know this is madness, right?"

There was a baritone chuckle in his ear and he felt curls and then warm lips pressing against his cheek.  "I'm counting on that."

John set the papers down, turned toward Sherlock to press tightly up against him, letting his chest rub side to side against Sherlock's sensitive nipples, even through fabric they were quickly pebbling.  The moan from Sherlock's throat settled deep and low, vibrating against John's body.  "Join me?" John said, grabbing at Sherlock's belt, twisting slightly as he let his lower belly rub a suggestive pattern against Sherlock's zip.  He gestured over his shoulder toward their bedroom.  "I want to see what else you have in those trousers, other than a long femur."

Sherlock half chuckled in mock distress and poorly amused chagrin.  "Hopefully something to occupy your mouth, keep that terrible sense of humour from leaking out."

"It would be my pleasure," John said, his shirt nearly off already, and he toed his shoes off before following Sherlock down the hall, "to shut you up as well."

They were both ultimately very successful.  And very _pleasured_.

++

A few months later, they were served with a registered letter containing their pending adoption notice, that their application had been officially approved, that there would be a brief formal hearing secondary to the petition filed on their behalf.  It explained that the newborn once arrived wiuld spend three days in an established foster care setting and then be released to them.  Further information, as it would become available, the letter explained, would be through a phone call from the adoption agency consortium on the west side.  Additionally, it noted that they would be contacted to set up the mandatory training.

"This was a surrogacy, not an adoption."  Sherlock was reading over John's shoulder.  "And I am _not_ going to training, mandatory or not."

John could feel the same angst he had when the courier had arrived to pick up the sample, the disbelief of the incredulous antic of his short-sighted flatmate that defied all logic.  "Did you not think this through?  The adoption makes it _legal and binding_.  Of course we are attending.  The whole process is contingent upon our cooperation, see?" he asked as he pointed to the paragraph explaining it.  "What did you expect, that you fill out a paper, sign a bank note, and they hand you a baby at the end?"

"Of course I did.  And you're a sodding physician, you obviously know what you're doing around babies.  Training is ridiculous, and there is no need for either one of us to be forced to attend."  At John's stare, he continued, "It's a baby.  How hard could it be?"

"What kind of bloody childhood did you have, anyway?"

"Nannies and butlers of course, and the greatest game of all in walking the fine line right before they resigned, for as long as possible. It was great fun."

"Babies are work, you sod, and we are not having other people raise this child. First of all, we can't aff--"

"I think I like the name Olivia."

John held up a hand and Sherlock surprisingly stopped.  "It could be a boy."

"The greater probability is that it will be female, just based on the freezing of the specimen and the fact that we had both had caffeinated beverages early on the day of sample collection.  Girl producing spermatozoa are hardier and somewhat stronger, whereas faster, male producing sp--"  John made a pained noise in his throat.  "What on earth is the matter with you?  Medical details should not affect you in the least."

"Stop. Not distressed, just trying to reign you in. Training classes are --"

"Fine. _Fine._  I don't care. Just sign us up and I'll go."  If Sherlock was ever going to pout and then give in about something, this would have been it, and John knew he had a narrow window of opportunity here to speak up.

"You'll also behave."  When Sherlock looked at John apparently trying to decide how rebellious he could get away with being.  "Or I'll take a match to one of _your_ favorite apparel items."  He left unsaid what he would actually incinerate, leaving it to Sherlock's imagination.  First on his worry list was the Belstaff, of course.  And then the aubergine shirt with the reinforced buttonholes, although John would dearly miss that item.

"You wouldn't."

"Don't test me, Sherlock."  There was a huff, a sigh of resignation, and John glanced back down at the letter.  "Classes are next week, we could do-"

Sherlock was already miles away in a different direction, and interrupted.  "I'm going to be able to tell whose it is just by looking.  And perhaps by tasting her just to confirm."  He puzzled his brow.  "Or tasting him."

++

Eight weeks later, Sherlock was holding a blue-blanketed bundle, the contents of which were sound asleep in his arms.  There was fuzzy dark hair, porcelain skin, dark blue eyes, roundish face, and he was positively gobsmacked.  "It's you. The round face, the disposition..."

"You've met him for exactly thirteen minutes.  Eight of those were in the car carrier in the agency office." They'd signed papers, received congratulatory handshakes from the magistrate, and been sent on their merry way.  John set the empty carrier down on the kerb as they stood waiting for Mycroft's promised car to pick them all up.  It was a mild, overcast, almost comfortable morning so far, weather wise.

"It's you. It has to be. Look, he's content."

"You're never content, is that what you're implying?"

"No, not implying, I'm flat out saying.  And his cheekbones aren't that prominent."  Sherlock moved the blanket, tilted the baby toward John. "See?   _You_."  At the voices, the fresh air, and the movement of the blanket, the baby woke, dark eyes blinking, and Sherlock's attention was unswervingly riveted and his thumb paused over the baby's cheek.

"Yours weren't either until you hit puberty."  John leaned in close, taking in Sherlock's rapt face as well as that of the baby.  John half expected someone to challenge them to their claim, and he was well aware of the papers in the case slung over his shoulder.

"Maybe it is me, he's looking around.  Oh, he's curious!  See?"  They exchanged glances with each other then, with Sherlock excited and John... well, happily overwhelmed.

John opted not to tell him that the baby was in all likelihood not examining the molecular structure of dust particles in the air.  "Thirteen minutes," John reiterated, and when Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, John amended, "Fourteen, then.  You cannot possibly tell anything about a newborn's temperament in that short of a time."

"Then it's me because he's being clever.  Here, hold this," and Sherlock handed him the blanket as he lifted the baby to his face, inhaled deeply, several times.  "It's me, but it smells a bit like you for some reason?"  He held the baby eye level, staring.  "God, I just don't know!"

"It's okay not to know.  It's fine.  I'm sure before long, his growth charts will tell us how tall he is expected to be, and that alone will probably clue us in."

"Or the dark hair?"

"You were blond as a baby.  Blond as a toddler, too."

"I was?"

"God, Sherlock.  Yes of course, there are pictures at your mum's, remember?"

"I think it's you," and he buried his nose into the baby's neck again, tongue out, a small lick and a bit of tasting.  He pulled the baby away, considering, head tilted as he pondered, and then, there outside the adoption agency office, he eyed John up like a dog with a bone.  With very little warning, he descended upon John's neck, mouth open, tasting and testing and licking, inhaling before pulling away.  His mouth worked, his tongue licking his lips before swallowing thoughtfully.  "But he doesn't taste like you."

"Sherlock," John said after Sherlock was still for a moment, looking from him to the baby and back again several times.  "Sherlock, stop."  Finally he seemed to be paying attention.  "You may not. bite. the baby."  He arched an eyebrow.  "Or me, for that matter."  John couldn't stop the grin, "You are welcome to bite yourself if you want, although it seems unnecessary."

"But...!" Sherlock's mind was on a quest for information, driven in typical whole-hearted pursuit.

"Shh.  Sherlock, it doesn't actually matter."  Again, he looked like he was going to argue, to protest, so John simply smiled again, and said, gently, "He's _ours_."

John leaned in over Sherlock's arms toward the baby as he casually adjusted the hat, just barely lifting it away from the back of the baby's neck, letting his hand brush Sherlock's arm as he did, reassuring himself that they were all together.  But he had a mission, too:  There was not a generation of a Watson child, to his knowledge, that had escaped the inevitable Watson-prone birthmark - the nevus simplex.  It was typically, in his family's case, located at the back of the neck just above the hairline.  With every attempt to be casual, he eyed the area, scanning intently, taking in the presence of the small, salmon coloured marks.  Not that it was conclusive by a long shot he knew, their presence, but the _lack of them_ would have been very enlightening.  There was a slight catch in his breathing as he tried to covertly smooth the hat back into place, and he could feel the grin threaten, suppressed it.  His eyes cut to Sherlock quickly, as if to assure he'd been stealthy enough, but Sherlock had definitely already seen.

"What?"  Sherlock stared at him.

He shrugged, willed his pulse rate to stay calm.

Sherlock did then, what John had just done.  "What were you looking at, these marks?"  Sherlock moved the hat to look, too.  "What are they?"

"Nevus simplex.   _Stork bites._  Happened to catch a glimpse of them under the hat.  They'll fade.  Lots of babies have them."

There was a narrowing of Sherlock's eye as he took in John's stance, tone, expression, and, probably, his credibility.  "I didn't."

"You don't know that.  You didn't even know what colour _your_ hair was."

"Did you have those marks as a baby?"

John willed his voice to come out normal.  "I'm not sure."

Every cell in Sherlock's body was calling John out as a liar, and they both knew it.  "Hmm," was all he said in response.

"So are you still good with the name?" John asked, lightly as a diversion, and they both recognised that, too.

"Ryder Watson-Holmes."  Sherlock looked down as he spoke it.  "It's a big name for a tiny child."

John's arms were itching with an almost insatiable deep-seated need to be at home, to wrap his arms around his family there on the couch, he and Sherlock with the baby there between them.  It seemed surreal, and there was emotion welling up within him.  He'd said once, he didn't realise how much he wanted this - and now he had it.  And Sherlock, with all his wobbly, half-cocked ways, had somehow managed to bring it to fruition.

A long black car approached, slowed down, pulling over toward them.  John picked up the carrier.  "Let's take him home."

John breathed deep, savouring the sweetness of the moment.  The smile on Sherlock's face, the excitement, the freshness and overwhelming yet fulfilling roles they were undertaking, leaving him warm and sated.  It was a blessing, to be going home, embarking on this new adventure together.  He basked in the feelings - a sense of peace, contentment, and unshakable profound gratitude.  And then Sherlock continued, "I want to talk to you about my plan to give him a sister."

**Author's Note:**

> I have to say, the title may change - this has just defied me at every turn!
> 
> Blanket apologies for the IVF or IUI details that I am keeping intentionally vague. The procedure was meant in this case to be a rather benign plot device to serve to get the boys from point A to point B. Please excuse the liberties I've taken and the incompleteness.
> 
> Yes, I thought about giving them twins, but decided, based on statements from lead sources within the show surrounding TAB, "It's never twins."
> 
> I finally looked at this piece, having edited it and I now I need to post it before I ruin it. I don't want to overwork it. I am resisting the urge to add even more to it, but I kind of like where it ended. The glimpses into some of the noteworthy scenes along the way hopefully set them up well for the ending of the story (and the beginning of some Baker Street craziness, I'm sure). Thanks for reading along. 
> 
> Typos and mistakes are all my own, and if you find them, I apologize, and leave a comment if you'd like!


End file.
